


before i do it

by nxttime



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Character Death, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, So much angst, So so so much angst, emotional angst, i'm not even sorry, implied suicide, not even joking either, very much feels, you can't tear my angst from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 15:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17563514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxttime/pseuds/nxttime
Summary: Someone moved, he could feel it, and instantly his hand went to the gun strapped to his thigh but the other stayed over his ear. He lifted the weapon, aimed it directly at the person who’d deigned to shift.He trembled as he held the gun.It was pointed at someone. Someone small.“Robin move—!”





	before i do it

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shoot Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559680) by [NightOwl1600](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightOwl1600/pseuds/NightOwl1600). 



> I started writing this at two in the morning, and finished writing it at four something. hsnondanosfw
> 
> I hope you enjoy the hardcore angst :D

There was blood, so much blood.

Some of it was his.

But he was shaking, and he wanted to scream because his head felt like it was _seconds_ from blowing up. His heart raced in his chest and he could hardly breathe. His blood itched and burned—it felt like ants were crawling on each individual cell and he wanted the itching to _stop,_ but he couldn’t make it, and he couldn’t scratch it; he was too busy trying to live.

All around him there were shouts, shouts of his name from voices he thought he recognized, and cries of pain that each stabbed ice picks through his skull and made his ears ring a little. The world was in constant motion—his body was too—and movement flashed across his vision faster than he thought he could process it but adrenaline rushed through his veins and fueled his own counter-actions.

“—ood!”

_“—ason!”_

_“Re—”_

_“Jas—”_

_“—OP!”_

They wouldn’t shut up, and he needed them to _quit it, but they wouldn’t,_ so he screamed.

_“Shut up!”_

He stopped using defense tactics and went on the offensive, launching himself at whoever was nearest— _flash of black and blue—_ before using every scrap of anything and everything he could remember each of his mentors and teachers teaching him— _instilling_ in him.

Whoever he’d taken as an opponent— _laughter so honest it warmed his heart, made him smile genuinely for the first time in what felt to be far too long—_ had been caught severely off-guard by his sudden swap in tactic and struggled on the defensive. They were cut up and bleeding, probably left with a few broken bones too, by the time someone else— _black and red with a weird cape—_ tackled him off.

_NO!_

Instincts from a past long behind him flared up and his hand shot out in a palm strike, catching his attacker square in the chin with a loud cracking sound.

Several shouts followed his attacker’s initial cry of pain, and it was too much.

He scrambled back to his feet, slamming his hands over his ears and again screaming for them to shut up, shut up, _shut up!_

A pulsing that matched the speed of his heart’s pounding made his head feel like it was going to split in half, and he clenched his teeth shut and screamed. His body, everything, was shouting that he defend himself—demanding he _fight, just like always—_ but his instincts, his mind, disagreed and protested. There was something about the people he was fighting; they weren’t like the others, he could feel it in his gut.

But everything in his head was blended together; it was confused; it was _wrong,_ and he didn’t _know_ what was and what wasn’t—couldn’t differentiate between the two—and trying to only made the ice picks in his brain slam against his skull that much harder, and hurt that much _worse._

One thing that he noticed was that nobody was fighting him anymore—nobody was touching him; they were leaving him to himself, probably waiting for him to do something.

It made everything in his head disconcerted that much worse.

There was a thick haze over everything, muddling especially certain things, and he screamed again as he slammed his eyes shut and pressed his hands against his ears harder. Voices whispered directly in his skull, telling him to stop being weak and finish off his opponents, telling him that all it would take was his gun and the katana blade strapped to his back, telling him that they weren’t worth agonizing over, but he needed the voices to _shut up_ and _let him think._

Someone moved, he could feel it, and instantly his hand went to the gun strapped to his thigh but the other stayed over his ear. He lifted the weapon, aimed it directly at the person who’d deigned to shift.

He trembled as he held the gun.

It was pointed at someone. Someone small.

“Robin _move—!”_

Robin didn’t move. Robin stood there, with the gun aimed square at his chest, unwavering as he pulled the hood down and peeled the mask off his face.

Green eyes met his own. They were almost the same shade, but Robin’s were a darker, more natural, shade.

Those eyes… he recognized them.

His hand started shaking worse as he whispered, _“Damian?”_

Robin—Damian, _Damian, his little brother—_ tutted.

“Todd.”

Todd. That was his name, wasn’t it? His last name? He wasn’t sure. It seemed right but wrong at the same time.

“Put down the gun, Todd. Do not be ridiculous.”

Ridiculous? He didn’t know what he was going to _do_ anymore—he hadn’t known what he was doing _before._

“Jason?”

 _That_ was his name. Jason. Ja-son. _Jason. Jason Todd._

Jason looked to who he thought had spoken.

It was a man, dressed in black as dark as the night and blue as bright as his eyes, his own domino mask dangling from his fingertips.

Fog started shifting around in his brain and gave him this person’s name.

His brother’s name.

“D-Dick?”

The effort he put into the word earned him a bloody smile and Jason’s gut twisted. Had _he_ done that to Dick?

Panicking internally—because these were his _brothers_ that he’d both harmed and threatened to harm—Jason looked to the person supporting Dick and exhaled _his_ name.

“Tim?”

Tim nodded, but his jaw looked weird, and his arm was very broken and, oh _God, no,_ had Jason done that too?

“Hey, Jason.”

But there was one person left standing, there, on Dick’s other side.

Someone important.

Someone that made Jason’s eyes water.

_“Dad?”_

Bruce was his name. Jason knew that, and he knew he was Batman, but he knew most importantly that Bruce was his _dad,_ and he _needed_ his dad right then. His voice cracked on the single word, but Jason didn’t care.

He spotted blood trickling from several knife wounds—some cuts, one stab—and down to Bruce’s chin from his nose, and Jason wanted to scream again.

He wanted to scream because he knew without a single doubt that _he’d_ done it. _He’d_ hurt his family—had broken their bones and made them bleed.

_And he was still pointing the gun at his baby brother._

“Jaylad?”

The nickname was one he felt he hadn’t heard in millennia, and he knew he started crying, but he didn’t move the gun. It was still aimed; his finger was still on the trigger, itching to squeeze it.

But he _refused._ He’d shoot _himself_ before he hurt his family again, the voices screaming in his head be damned to hell.

Slowly he forced his hand to move away from Damian and aim somewhere else, trembling harder and the pain in his head spiking to a blinding degree.

He made sure the safety was off as he re-positioned his hand, and his family started yelling when they realized his new chosen target along with the voices now screaming at him in his head. Jason knew it was loaded—he could feel it in the gun’s weight.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, tears dripping from his chin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, they want me to kill you but I _won’t_ you’re my _family;_ I’ll kill myself before I do any of you, and I’m sorry.” At that point he was sobbing, from the physical pain and the emotional agony.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated in a trembling whisper.

Then he pulled the trigger.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
